


Unmasked

by xosairbearxo



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Feels, Frigga Feels, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Love/Hate, Poor Loki, Sexual Content, Thor: The Dark World
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xosairbearxo/pseuds/xosairbearxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**Takes place during Thor: The Dark World** After being sentenced to an eternity in a cell, Loki decides to create himself some company to pass the time. You are now part of Loki's world; trying to understand more about this dark, guarded, fragile man who is trying to fight opening himself up to you - and to love. **INCLUDES THESE SPOILERS: Frigga's death, Thor's deal with Loki, and other canon moments from the film** Rating will change near the end, as it will culminate into a very heavy, emotional sex scene. (You're warned now.) LOKI/READER</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmasked

You don’t know how you’ve come to be here. You don’t know where you are, or what this is, or even your own name. You are but a newborn babe opening its eyes to the world for the first time. There is light, and it blinds you; your brand new eyes struggle to adjust to it as you blink in a flurry, your vision instantly blurred with the wetness of your orbs trying to shield themselves. You instinctively hold up your – what is that? – to shade your eyes, but the foreign limb, with five long, skinny things on it, catches your attention. Surprised, you forget the bright lights and your eyes open wider. You stare at your hand for a moment before realizing you have another one – and two similar-looking limbs that you’re standing on! You’re overwhelmed with shock – you’ve literally appeared into the universe as if from thin air – and your mind is what philosophers would call a “tabula rasa”… a blank slate. You touch around your face and feel all the features it possesses; you touch the soft, strange stuff on your head. It’s long and you hold it out in front of your face to look at it, and it fascinates you. Then you look down at the garments covering your body; they’re a startling hue, but it’s breathtaking.

A voice startles you from your self-absorption. “Eheheheh… Very good. You will do.”

You’re not alone. You quickly look up to see a tall, lithe person, adorning green and gold, staring at you. He stands eerily straight, and wears a mischievous smile on an impish face. The first thing you think is that he looks oddly beautiful; his skin is starkly pale, which creates a drastic contrast between it and the head of long, raven’s hair that falls around his shoulders. The most striking feature on this man is the set of emerald eyes, framed by black lashes. They’re a mesmerizing colour, but they’re offset by an almost intimidating fire burning within them. 

One look at this man – this stranger – and you are on edge. You stiffen and open your mouth, not even questioning the fact that you can form words, despite having never spoken before. “Who am I?” you ask. The question causes you to pause. No, wait, that wasn’t what you meant to say… was it? You wanted to know who HE was… but your mind took the deepest issue rooted in your subconscious and brought it to the forefront. 

He grins, baring a mouth full of straight, pearly whites. It seems like the gesture should normally be friendly, but instead it makes you feel as though you’re being cornered and studied. “You?” he says, and his voice surprises you again, only this time for a different reason. He has the body language of a predator zeroing in on an unsuspecting prey, except his voice is thick with velvet and makes something in your chest start pounding faster. You take a small, preventative step back, even though he hasn’t moved. “You are a product of my mind; of my magic,” he answers. “You are the result of too much free time and an eternity without seeing an end to it.”

This answer clarifies nothing for you. You try to make sense of his words, but to little avail. “So I’m… not real?” is the only thing you can think to ask. 

The man considers this and then folds his hands behind his back. “You are real only to me,” he clarifies. “You are nothing but a few simple enchantments, but I can see you, hear you, touch you – if I so desired to. However, no one else can do the same; to them, you are not even here.” He holds up his hands and gets a smug look on his face. “Magic,” he repeats, as if you should be impressed. “Ta-daaaaa!” 

But you don’t know what “magic” or “enchantments” or any of this means; if he has in fact created you, he hasn’t given you much knowledge as a starting point. You wonder if this is deliberate or not; if, without knowledge of your own, he eliminated the risk of you coming to be with your own set of opinions. You think that maybe this man didn’t want to take the chance that yours would differ from his. The only piece of information you understand is that no one else can see you. You only seem to exist for him. It’s a strange feeling, realizing that your purpose is tied to only one other.

“Do I have a name? What am I called?” you ask after a few moments of silence. His face doesn’t change at the question, but his eyes flicker with something, as if considering your words. “Not at the moment,” he answers. This is a weird answer. Who are you then? Was he just planning on keeping you a innominate entity for the rest of your… however long you exist? He sees your unease at this and adds, “I see no need for such titles. They only add an unnecessary level of intimacy that I don’t particularly care for. I know who you are, and you are here, and will never be elsewhere, so what is the purpose of it?”

You don’t know any better, so you wonder if perhaps this is a normal occurrence. Maybe lots of people were nameless. Still, something about it bothers you; but you say nothing. You glance back down at your dress and fidget with it. 

“Do you like your dress?” the velvety voice asks pointedly – as if you’d better say you do. You nod and mutter, “It’s really pretty.” The colour of it leaves you in awe, and you wish you could see what you look like in it – what it is you look like in general. “This… this…” You try and think of the right word. 

The man narrows at eyes at you. “‘This’ what?” 

You point to the dress again, feeling frustrated. “This! Whatever this is!”

His eyebrows even back out. “This colour? Does it not please you?”

You shake your head, looking from the dress to him. “No, I just want to know what ‘colour’ it is. It’s remarkable.”

He gets that impish grin again and it still makes you tense. He has apparently brought you to life, but you feel as though, with the bat of an eye, he would cross the room and end your existence in a split second. Yet, because he is your creator, there is a thread that connects you to him, and vice versa. If you look at him hard enough, you almost feel like you can see it. You don’t know if you much like the fact that, despite not even knowing him, you feel dependent on this person.

“It is called ‘red’, and I think it brings out your eyes. I did an outstanding job, if I do say so myself,” he gloats excitedly. “Would you like to see?” 

Before you can even answer, a third person formulates between you two, making you yelp and jump back. You can hear his cold laughter. “You are too easily frightened,” he chastises, “like a timid rabbit. Calm yourself, this is but a copy of you – it’s not real. You can touch it, though if you did, the illusion would simply disappear.” He sneers. “You can either observe it and take a look at yourself, or you can gawk and cower. Either way, this is only lasting for a minute – I have no need for two of you.”

You blink and straighten, feeling embarrassed. You look behind the girl – behind YOU, how strange – and meet eyes with your creator. You are amusing him; you wonder if this is why he made you. It makes you feel small. So you harden your gaze and move your eyes to the figure in front of you. She is positively beautiful, and you can’t quite comprehend the fact that this is but a reflection of yourself. She feels like a separate person entirely. You don’t want to admit it aloud, but he DID do an outstanding job, particularly with the dress. It flatters all of your features, from the tone of your skin to the hair on your head – and he was right, it DOES bring out your eyes. You’re not sure what the names are for the colours of his garments, but you notice that they seem to complement each other nicely. Somewhere deep down, you like this. 

You don’t see him raise his hand and tilt it slightly, but then the copy of you dissipates in a quick shimmer, and you’re looking straight at him. It throws you off guard, and you avert your eyes and feel your face flushing. This man makes you feel confusing, conflicting things. Strangely, you want him near you but you also want to keep your distance. You want to know him, but you feel an innate fear at what you’ll find out. You want him to say nothing but also say it all, because there’s something that’s both scary and soothing in his voice. You fidget, ring your dress absentmindedly in your hands, and his eyes won’t leave you. You don’t know what exactly he’s expecting out of you. You clear your throat and then force yourself to glance back up at him. “So who are you?” you ask hesitantly.

One side of his lip curl up into a proud sneer. “I am Loki, former Prince of Asgard,” he announces. You detect a hint of bitterness in his tone but choose not to address it. “That is where we are, Asgard,” he continues. “But more specifically, we are in my new, humble abode. Do you like it?” He holds out his arms and gestures around the room mockingly. This feels like a trick question. You look around the small room, taking in the surroundings for the first time. The walls and floors are a bright colour – they remind you of the colour of Loki’s skin – and there isn’t much in terms of decorating. There’s a small, bed-like piece of furniture, a few chairs and small tables, and on one, a goblet filled with clear liquid and a bowl with small, round things inside of it. 

“Do you live here?” you ask. He snorts a small, dark chuckle. “I do now - courtesy of the gracious King,” he replies sarcastically. You look back to him, confused. “What does that mean?” You furrow your brows.

His jaw tightens, but he keeps that bitter sneer on his face. “It means that I am a prisoner; sentenced to an eternity in a cell because my dear old father could not bear the thought of me becoming a greater ruler than he was.”

Your jaw drops. “Your FATHER locked you up?”

He taps one foot suddenly. “Do keep up,” he sighs impatiently. “He is the King; I am the former Prince. ‘Father’ is a bit of a false term, but that is of no matter now. For all intents and purposes, that would make him my Father in theory. Honestly, I had to have made you sharper than this.”

You bite your lip, a pang of hurt passing through you. Your question hadn’t been literal; it was just a small detail you hadn’t picked up on until the end. And even if you HADN’T pieced that together, it wasn’t your fault that he made you this way; you’re not unaware by your own doing. Yet, he is treating you as such. Why is he talking to you as if you’d already done something wrong? “So, umm… what did you do then? To end up in here, I mean?” you ask, trying to change the subject. 

He is the one to look away now. He seems to be lost in a memory, one that causes another of those bitter smirks to cross his face and twist his otherwise attractive features. “For attempting to fulfill my birthright,” is all he’ll give you. Of course, you have no idea what this means. But you can’t fathom why a father would sentence his own son to an eternity in a cage; perhaps you weren’t entirely a blank slate after all. You may not have known colours, or names, or whereabouts, or purposes, but you understood the inherent idea that parents are supposed to love their children. Automatically, this paints the King out in a bad light, and you feel compelled to believe that whatever Loki had done, mustn’t have been as bad as his father was making it seem. 

You start to walk around the room, getting a better look at everything in it. You take a better look at the little round things in the bowl on the table and wrinkle your nose with curiosity. Loki watches you. “Blueberries,” he tells you. “You may have one if you want; I despise them.” You like that word: blueberries. It sounds soft and sweet. You pick one up between your fingers and inquire, “What is the colour of this?” 

He laughs then, and it sounds different than the other laughs you’ve heard. This one sounds a little more genuine. “That would be BLUE,” he replies. “Hence the name, BLUEberry. Try one; they’re absolutely vile. Maybe you’ll like it.”

You cock an eyebrow at him. Was that supposed to be the selling pitch? “Can I even eat it?” you ask curiously. “I mean, if I am not real?”

“Why not? You seem to have failed to notice that you can touch it; you’re holding it in your fingers. If you can touch it, you can taste it. I said you are not real to the REST of the world – that does not mean you are not real at all.”

You ponder his answer and then slowly bring the berry to your noise and smell it. There’s a faint whiff and it smells sweet. You gingerly place it in your mouth and bite down. The burst of flavour is delightful; maybe it’s because you have never tasted anything before, but you find the berry delicious and wonder instantly how Loki could dislike it. You look to him for permission and he gives you an impassive nod to show that he doesn’t care if you eat more. So you do. You gather a few in your hand and then look back around the room. You are slightly startled to see that two of the walls are transparent; you can see the dungeon outside of it, surrounded by other cells with other prisoners inside. You walk up to the wall, seeing the faint shimmer of a bright, beautiful colour, and you touch it with your fingers. It hums softly and spreads out that mystical colour around the pads of your digits. “What is this?”

“A spell,” Loki answers flatly. “To ensure I do not escape.” 

You are transfixed by this for a while, trying to wrap your mind around this thing called “magic” and all of the wondrous things it seems capable of doing. Then you take the time to look out into the other cells across from Loki’s; the creatures in there look far more intimidating than your creator does. Some of them look like you in body and anatomy; some don’t look like you at all. For the first time, you’re thankful that you’re in here, with Loki, rather than out there, with any of them. You turn back to find Loki leaning against one of the bright walls now. 

“So why am I here? Why did you make me?” you finally ask. This is all fine and good, but he hasn’t exactly explained your purpose yet.

Loki does not give you a single bodily reaction. He remains eerily stoic as he stands there. He doesn’t even so much as blink. “To keep me company,” he states, as if this is just fact that means nothing to him. You’re starting to wonder if that’s how he feels about you, too. “I prefer my own company more than most men, but even an eternity is too long a time to spend without someone else to talk to.”

“So I’m your companion?”

“No,” he snaps, much louder than you were expecting. Now his jaw is tensing and his green orbs are flashing again with something fierce and guarded. “You are not my companion; you are not my ‘friend’. I don’t have ‘friends’,” he spits out the word as if it were poisonous. Then he inhales collectedly, and that unusually reticent mask reappears. “You are just… company. It would be in your best interest to remember that and not confuse it with anything further.”

Once again, he is being cruel, and once again, it hurts. His words make you feel lonely and pitiful; he is the only living being in this world that is aware of your existence and you are no more than a way for him to pass the time. What kind of a life was that? But you know the alternative can’t be much better… simply passing back out of existence and going back to being nothing. Being something, no matter how small, was better than being nothing. So you bite your tongue – fight the urge to return his snarky demeanor – and try to exercise your patience. 

“And no one else will come to visit you?” you ask him tiredly. It’s difficult being tolerantly accommodating to this man. 

His gaze trails off again and he smiles; a strange smile, that could also pass as a frown. “No one cares,” he informs you, and if this is true, it breaks your heart. “I had thought perhaps my brother might have come to see me, but evidently he has better things to do. There is only one person who…” His voice trails off as he suddenly pushes himself off the wall and strides across the room, something outside of the walls catching his eye. “What a coincidence,” he mutters under his breath, but you think it’s more meant for himself than directed at you. Then he spares you a quick glance from the corner of his eye. “Someone’s ears must’ve been burning,” he adds. You don’t know what this means, but suddenly he’s grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the transparent wall, moving you across the room. He stops you just as your back hits the back wall of the room, and he quickly says, lowly, “Just stand there. Keep very quiet and still; if you speak to me, I will not answer you. Not until she has left. Nod if you understand.”

You nod, but you don’t understand. Not at all. He moves away from you and faces the opposite direction, waiting patiently. You wonder who he is waiting FOR.

A tall, elegant, positively beautiful woman suddenly comes into view and approaches the cell. With one swift motion of her hand, she creates a doorway by which to walk inside. To your further amazement, it vanishes the moment she’s fully in the room.

“Hello, Loki,” she says lovingly, with a sad smile on her face. You watch her with wide eyes; who is this woman? Why do you feel the faintest pang of jealousy? She speaks to your creator with such a tender tone, as if she knows him on a personal level – a level you will never know him. But yet she is so radiant and has such kind eyes that you can’t help but be grateful she has come. Already, the air around all of you has become warmer, softer. She carries a stack of rectangular-looking things in her arms – some small, some larger. You try and sneak a better look at them, trying to guess what they are, but you also dare not leave you spot against the wall, so you can only make out so much. There is also a small bag sitting on top of them. 

“Hello,” you hear Loki reply, with an unexpected gratefulness in his tone. Almost like relief to see her. It sounds strange coming from him, but you like it. It’s a sliver of proof that something a little tenderer exists inside of this man. She places the stack of the rectangular things down on the foot rest and then holds out the bag to Loki. “I have brought you some books; I thought maybe you would be interested in reading some of them, and you can let me know which ones you prefer so I may bring more,” she tells him, trying to keep her tone light. There is a distinct elephant in the room, you can tell, and it seems like they both know what it is, but that it’s purposely being avoided.

Loki eyes the “books” and then gives a small nod. He clears his throat. “Yes, thank you,” he says. His tone is a bit more apathetic this time, and this makes you frown. This is a nice gesture from this woman, after all. But then, as if reading your mind, he adds, “I would like that,” his voice much softer this time. She smiles, and it makes you smile. Her happiness is contagious. 

Loki accepts the bag in her hands and then peers inside. Frowning, he asks, “Blueberries? Surely you’ve noticed that the ones I already have, have gone mostly uneaten.”

The woman looks to the bowl, confused. “I thought they were your favourite,” she says calmly. Loki seems too preoccupied grimacing into the bag to notice the disappointment in her voice, but you notice it. It makes you want to smack some sense into the Prince.

“I hate blueberries,” he mutters.

“They were your favourite as a child, then.”

“They were NEVER my favourite.”

She sighs. “Very well, it was my mistake,” she resigns. “What would you prefer in its place?”

Loki puts the bag down on the edge of his bed, seeming like he’s thinking about his choices. “Cranberries,” he says after a moment’s pause. The woman’s eyebrows raise curiously. He defends his choice, saying, “They are sour. I like that.” He gets a strange expression on his face as he bitterly attempts humour, adding, “I’M sour.”

He waits for her to laugh, but she doesn’t. Neither do you. Instead, you both just stare at him sadly, though he pays no attention to you. He breaks the stare with this woman and walks over to the books. Dragging his fingers tenderly over the covers, he goes through them one by one, reading the titles. He stops on one book and lets out a small, “Hmm.” He holds it up. “Hamlet; how suiting.” Loki turns to her and pushes a false smile to his lips. “I have always been quite fond of Shakespeare’s work – even though he is but a mere mortal. Midgardians have some fascinating literature.” 

You have no idea what any of this means, but it seems to provide some relief for the woman. She smiles genuinely and then suddenly begins walking towards Loki. You see his body stiffen, and you watch with anticipation, curious to see if he will accept whatever is coming. Gently, she reaches out and cups his face with her hands and her smile grows ever so slightly - but her eyes are glistening. Loki’s own eyes close as he sighs at the affectionate gesture; he seems to be trying to keep his face unreadable but you see his body visibly sink into the touch. It’s so sad – this man suddenly looks so broken and fragile - that it’s almost painful to watch.   
“Loki…” is all the woman can say, shaking her head, her heart visibly aching. She takes a deep breath. “You know that I will not be able to visit you frequently,” she says reluctantly. His eyes open and he looks to her. “But I will come as often as I can.”

Loki then backs out of her hands and folds his own behind his back. You could have sworn that his expression drops just a bit, and his mask has deteriorated – and is that sadness in his eyes? And then suddenly, the indifference is back and the mask restored. 

“Oh yes, Odin does not know you’re here,” Loki says with a small smile, but his words are cold and filled with hatred. You assume that this Odin person is the King – his father – that he mentioned before. “Best not to upset the old man, lest his weakened heart fails him and he falls back into another Odinsleep.” 

“I do not find that funny, Loki,” she replies warningly, and even for such a graceful, loving woman, there is something that borders on intimidating in her tone. “Your father did not enjoy what transpired between you and him; he was just as upset as I about your punishment.”

The way she speaks of the King, you are able to piece together this woman’s identity and deduce that she must be his mother.

“And yet, he instilled it.”

“There is a purpose to everything your father does,” she insists. “He chose this sentence for a reason.”

Now you’re becoming conflicted; this woman seems so sincere and right-minded, and clearly loves her son dearly. And she speaks of Odin and Loki’s punishment with regret, but it’s her last statement that bothers you the most. ‘He chose this sentence for a reason.’ A REASON – one that the Prince has yet to reveal to you. Instinctively, you still feel drawn to your creator and irrationally want to side with him, jump to his defense. But the level-headed part of you is now questioning what exactly it was that Loki did to wind up here. You can’t help but wonder if his actions were truly as harmless as he tried to make them seem to you.

But Loki laughs in disbelief. “But when Thor threatened to start a war against the Jotunheim, all he got in return was a banishment to Midgard that lasted the span of a long weekend.”

Your eyes jump back to the mischief god. More information… who was Thor? Was that the brother he mentioned?

“Loki, you know that your actions far exceeded the severity of your brother’s. Your father had to respond accordingly.”

Loki’s jaw tightens. “He’s not my father,” he whispers lowly, his tone dangerous and offended.

The words hang in the air for a moment; you look back and forth between the two uncomfortably. Then his mother sighs. “You cannot hope to show him that you have changed if you are unwilling to take responsibility for your actions,” she says.

Loki raises his eyebrows, as if the mere suggestion offends him. In mock surprise, he gestures to himself. “Change? Is that what Odin hopes will happen – that I will change? Into whom, I wonder? Thor? An Aesir, instead of a Frost Giant?” His voice grows colder and louder as he speaks. “Does he hope I will magically change so I am no longer a monster? Would I somehow then be worthy in his eyes of attaining the throne? Of being equal to the mighty Thor?!”

“What are you talking about?” You can’t help but ask aloud. Frost Giant? Aesir? Monster? What did these words mean? Why was he talking about himself with such disgust? You wish he would answer you, but he ignores you, like he said he would. 

His mother says nothing, although her mouth trembles in an attempt to fight back tears. Something in what Loki has just said has struck a chord deep within her, and you swear you can see guilt in her eyes. “Please do not twist my words,” she eventually says tiredly. “Neither your father nor I could ever see you as a monster. You are not a monster, Loki; whether you choose to believe it or not, you are our son. And we would never wish for you to be your brother; the world already has one Thor, it does not need another – just as the world should only have one Loki, for you are just as special, and unique, and can offer the Nine Realms so much. They need you, Loki. But not like this; not with all this bitterness in your heart, that leads to suffering and destruction. You are better than that.” 

Loki glares at her. “‘Would you have me / False to my nature? Rather say I play / The man I am,’” he recites angrily. 

She frowns, and so do you. “I…?” she starts.

“‘Coriolanus’, Mother; another of that Midgardian author’s plays.” He speaks through gritted teeth. “I am who I am, and I will not change just to please Odin – you and him can choose to accept that, or don’t. It matters not to me.”

You can sense that Loki has overstepped a line by this point. A single, heartbreaking tear slips down the woman’s face as she struggles to maintain her composure in his presence. The urge to shake Loki fills you again. ‘Apologize!’ you want to scream at him. ‘You just told me that no one cares about you when clearly that’s a lie! Why are you treating someone - who clearly loves you so much - this way!?’ But he says nothing. He just stands there stubbornly, but you can see a brief flicker of remorse wash over him. It’s apparent in his body language. Unfortunately, he’s also stubborn, and so he waits for the uncomfortable silence to be broken and seems to be hoping against hope that his mother cannot see the guilt in his eyes. 

She wrings her hands, looking to the stack of books, and then moves back towards her son, who now refuses to meet her eyes. She tentatively places one hand back on his face. “No one can force you to change, Loki,” she whispers, and then places a sad kiss on the other cheek. Loki doesn’t even blink. She pulls back and lets her hand drop. “But you will have a long and lonely eternity ahead of you if you cannot think back on your actions and understand your faults in what happened. I hope you will eventually see, because I love you and want my son back.” She sighs again, Loki still refusing to look at her. “I will return as soon as possible,” she finally says, defeated. Without even gesturing, a doorframe reappears by her magic’s will, and she motions to leave. Before she does, however, you both see her notice the bag of blueberries she had brought him. She makes to go pick them up to take with her. Quickly, Loki intercepts and picks up the bag before she can.

“I will keep these,” he says, and his voice is gentler now. Finally, he glances up at his mother and his fingers close around the bag, making the decision final.

His mother seems to understand her son; what these words are trying to really say. She nods ever so slightly and forces another sad smile to her lips. Then without another word, turns and leaves the cell, the door disappearing behind her. You move from your spot against the wall and walk right past Loki, watching her leave. The whole exchange has shaken you to the core. You have so many questions, and you’re terrified to hear their answers. You turn back to face Loki. His eyes are on the floor, and he looks bothered. As if he’s forgotten you’re here, he turns his back to you and walks back up to one of the small tables. Gingerly, he unties the small rope around the cloth bag and dumps the blueberries into the bowl with the other ones. He holds out the bag, as if considering simply dropping it to the floor in a weird act of protest. Then, he seems to think better of it, and gently lays it on the table next to the bowl. 

Your eyes are glued on him, your heart hammering in your throat. Who IS this man? Loki, former Prince of Asgard… Frost Giant? Aesir? Monster? 

He sits down on the side of his bed, still staring at the floor. He looks like a completely different person than the one who spoke to you no more than a few minutes ago. Whatever mask he seemed so accustomed to wearing seems to have broken and fell away, and you’re almost sure that the only reason he hasn’t resurrected it is yet is because he’s too lost in thought to realize that it was gone in the first place. You dare not approach him; you’re frozen in place, your heart hammering in your chest and your breathing quick and shallow. Loki sighs and slumps forward, covering his face with his hands.

“What…?” you say, almost inaudibly.

This reminds him of your presence. His head snaps back up and he looks at you with a defensive snarl, as if you’re there to attack him. His hot-and-cold changes in emotion frighten you, almost as much as the current expression he wears does. You feel yourself shaking slightly. “What did you do…?” you whisper, afraid of what you’ll find out.

His jaw tenses and he glares at you with such hatred. It’s overwhelming, so palpable, and out of place. It feels like it’s directed at you, and you don’t know why. Not saying a word, he raises his hand in a quick, rigid motion and before your mind can even register what’s going on, everything fades to black and your world returns to nothing.


End file.
